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RuneswardChapter 04 free porn video
“I’ve three daughters,” the man said, his wife sitting next to him. The man was young, surely no older than late twenties or early thirties; his wife was about the same. Maybe slightly over six feet tall, he had sandy brown hair and blue eyes and his cleanly-shaven face showed a thick, lantern jaw. He was a powerful man with wide, hulking shoulders. His arms were long masses of corded muscle.
The wife seemed slight, maybe five-feet five-inches tall, but anyone would seem slight next to such a mountain of a man. She had dirty blonde hair tucked into a bun, some flyaway strands curling around her round face. Her eyes were more gray than blue but they seemed kind and innocent. “Aged nine, five and three. I love them all but the oldest has chosen woodcraft and the youngest has been picked by your order to follow them when she comes of age. That leaves the five-season-old and I worry if she chooses to turn away from smithing that I’ll have no one to carry on my work. We’ve thought about offering an apprenticeship – but my father was a smith, his father was a smith and so on up the line. My family has been smithing for as many generations as I can count and I want that legacy to continue. Our only hope is to adopt a young lad to carry on my legacy. We’d love a wee little babe but we only ask that he be no older than nine; after nine it becomes difficult to teach the ways of metal and I’d end up spending most of my time unlearning him of what he thinks he knows.”
“I understand,” the woman smiled. She was an older woman with hair that was once brown but was now more a whitish gray. She was certainly at least in her forties and likely much older. Her face seemed kind and gentle, her brown eyes loving and caring. There were few wrinkles in a face that seemed to have soft, well-cared for skin and her hands seemed the same; hands that were too young for her apparent age. She wore a long burgundy robe with golden trim as did all her order. She stood slightly taller than the woman when she was standing but she sat now, across a small table from the couple. “Unfortunately, I have no babies or young children in the orphanage. We had several a few seasons past – orphans who survived the plague, you understand – but most have already been adopted by families. To be truthful, we have few children here anymore and the ones we do have are destined for the Priesthood, I’m afraid.”
“I understand,” the man said with a sigh. “We’d hoped – a woman from a neighboring village had said ... well, there’s nothing for it now. We’re sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Please, Holy Sister Mendfred,” the woman pled. “My husband and I have come a fair distance; seven days on the road away from my girls. Surely there is one child you can spare for us.”
“I’m sorry, Goodwoman,” Sister Mendfred sighed. “I’m afraid there really... “ Her voice trailed off.
“What?” Goodwoman Tulat asked, hope in her eyes. “Have you thought of one?”
Mendfred shook her head, her face troubled. “There may be one,” she admitted. “He’s a troublemaker, though. Another survivor of the plague. He refuses to say his prayers, no matter the punishment. He won’t take Blessed Tyln’s sacraments either. He refuses to fast on Tyln’s Day.” She shook her head again. “I’m not sure I could put that on you.” She looked over between the man and woman. “Either of you. Though he’s only seven I’m not certain we can ever bend him to Tyln’s will.”
“From whence does he hail?” Goodman Tulat asked.
“The lost city of Beldrin, I believe,” Holy Mendfred replied.
“Beldrin?” Goodman Tulat gasped. “I had nae thought any survived!” The Goodman rubbed his chin. “I had family there; a cousin and his babes. I’m certain Beldrin knelt to Tyln. All of them. The Duke demanded it.”
“Perhaps that is the source of the problem,” Sister Mendfred pointed out. “People must come to Tyln’s worship on their own. Coercing them is not the way. Perhaps, now freed from the Duke’s power, the youngster rebels against Holy Tyln not understanding that Tyln loves all.”
“May we see him?” the goodwoman asked. “We’re not afraid of a little hard work if it means we can bring him to Tyln’s altar.”
Sister Mendfred stared at the pair dubiously, her face showing she was clearly torn. Finally, though, she sighed. “Please. Wait here.”
“Bring him to Tyln’s altar?” Goodman Tulat whispered in disbelief. “The gods are going to punish you for your lies, Elva!”
“We kneel to Deia, Ardt,” Elva replied loftily, her voice no louder than Ardt’s own. “She’s much more ... flexible ... when it comes to stretching the truth. Do the stories not say she tweaks the other gods’ noses whenever she can?”
Ardt shook his head. “Maybe – but never in their own church. And never to the faces of their priests.”
“We’re not in Tyln’s church, now are we?” Elva whispered. “We’re in an orphanage, looking to take over the care of one of his charges. One of his charges who doesn’t seem to want to be here, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Maybe,” Ardt admitted grudgingly. “I’m not sure it’s enough to stay his hand, however.”
Elva just shrugged as the door re-opened. The boy Sister Mendfred pushed in front of her was thin as a stick and needed a bath. His hair was black and wild, sprouting up everywhere and his face was set in a scowl. His blue eyes were a deep blue, a hint of icy calm at their center. He struggled against the priestess’s hands, trying to get away.
As soon as she saw him, Elva somehow knew he was the right choice. For a moment, she glimpsed what could be and she could see him hard at work at the forge, turning out beautiful marvels of brass and gold, silver and steel. She could almost feel the heat of the forge as he tended it. She could almost smell the molten metals.
Ardt, too, could see the future in the boy. Almost a stick figure now, he would grow tall and strong. His shoulders would widen, his arms become as corded muscle. He could see the thick jaw and steady face beneath the baby fat. Ardt realized he’d had a dream of what his son would be like hammering at the metal – and he realized that this boy was the one he’d always dreamed about.
“Here is the boy I spoke of,” Holy Sister Mendfred said, her voice a struggle. “You can see he’s willful, just as I said. His name is Yren. Yren, this is Goodman and -woman Tulat from the village of Hasp. They’re here to see if they want to adopt you.”
“Adopt me?” the boy asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed and glancing between the man and woman.
“Yes, Yren,” Ardt spoke up. His choice had been made as soon as his eyes had set upon the boy. “I am a blacksmith looking to pass along my craft to one of my children – but I fear my daughters are choosing other paths and the fire from my family smithy may go out forever. The plague took away our hopes of adding to our family just as the plague took your family completely from you. It seems we might be a fit for each other; I’d get the son I’ve always wanted – and an apprentice to my craft. You’d get a substitute for the family you lost.”
The young man appeared to think that over for a moment. “Would I have to pray to Tyln?” Yren asked with a glare.
Ardt looked uncomfortably at the orphanage priestess but Elva spoke up before he could utter a sound. “We’d like for you to kneel to Tyln,” Elva said quietly. “At your own time, though. When you’re ready.”
“I’ll never be ready!” Yren shouted. “He took my mom and dad. He took my sister. I’ll never kneel to him again!”
“We can talk about that,” Elva smiled. “We’ll not make you do what you don’t want to do.”
“Now see here...,” Sister Mendfred started.
“Holy Sister,” Elva turned to the priestess. “You just told us that we must each come to Tyln’s worship on our own. I shall lead the boy by example but it is he who must make the compact. I’m sure, if we are patient, we can bring him back to worship.”
The Holy Sister’s mouth set firmly but she could not argue her own words. “Fine,” she said finally. “There is still the cost of his upkeep. He’s been here near three seasons at three coppers a season. We’ll need a donation of nine coppers to cover Tyln’s work.”
“Nine coppers?” Ardt asked, his eyes wide. “If we leave him, you’ll still be feeding and clothing the boy. I don’t have nine coppers to give you, sister. I could probably spare four coppers – but they were destined for the church anyway.”
“Four?” Sister Mendfred asked shrewdly. “That barely covers the cost of the roof over his head. I couldn’t take less than seven.”
“We’re not haggling, Sister,” Ardt replied. “Mostly because we can’t. Four coppers is all we have – all we can spare and that leaves only two coppers to return back to our home. We didn’t care to bring more with us; we were told the roads can be treacherous at times.”
“Fine,” Sister Mendfred replied harshly. “Four coppers then – as long as you promise to give five more during the next worship. May Tyln be merciful.”
Ardt passed over four coppers, counting them out on the table. “We’ll have to sleep on the ground on the way home,” he grumbled. “But ‘tis worth it to stay in Tyln’s gentle, merciful embrace.”
“Does he need to collect anything?” Elva asked, putting her hand on the boy’s shoulder carefully. Yren looked at her hand and then up to her, a questioning look on his face, but he said nothing. “Clothes and the like?”
“No,” Sister Mendfred intoned harshly. “Even the clothes on his back are the church’s – but I can’t send him out with you naked. Just take him and go.”
Ardt and Elva thanked the Holy sister and left quickly, before she could change her mind. They looked relieved that Yren knew to follow them. The couple had come on their wagon pulled by two draft horses. It was the wagon the smith used both to deliver commissioned work and to carry the purchased ore back to his smithy. The cart was long, with two axles, but it was open and aged, the wood just turning to gray from wind and weather. Ardt helped Yren up into the cab, practically lifting him over the cart’s fence with a single hand.
The cart had some sacks and jugs up front and a few bundles of cloth in the back. He eyed both piles for a few moments before making up his mind. He climbed forward, resting against the sacks up front. He reasoned it would be the better position to accidentally overhear the couple’s conversation.
“How old are you, boy?” Ardt asked a little while later. Yren had been staring wide-eyed at every passing tree and bush, each one meaning he was getting further and further from the orphanage.
“I’ll be seven seasons later this year,” Yren replied, speaking clearly.
“You know your numbers, then?” Elva asked, looking back at the boy fondly.
“Yes,” Yren replied. “Letters, too, though I don’t know how to read. Mom and Dad were teaching me ciphering and reading when ... when... “ His voice faded away as he dropped his head.
“I understand,” Elva said with a sad smile. “We lost both friends and family to the plague and, of course, we grew sick with it though our children were spared.”
“We’ll need to teach you up some, then,” Ardt glanced back at the boy. “If you’re to be a smith – a good smith – you’ll need to read and write and be able to figure numbers.”
“I – I – I thought smiths worked with metals?” Yren stuttered.
Ardt laughed. “We do. It is the bulk of our work. We need to write down orders, though – and read them, once written. We need to figure out the cost of things, which means we need to cipher. We need to know what ores we have on hand, how to mix them – all of which take numbers and calculations. A decent smith can probably do that by rote, without the reading or calculation; a truly great smith, though, will need to be able to read, write and do numbers.”
“So, I’m going to learn, then?” Yren asked.
“Yes,” Elva replied, smiling at her husband.
“I think my mom and dad would’ve liked that,” Yren said in a small voice. “They told my sister and me we needed to learn in order to make our mark in the world.” Yren stopped and Elva looked back at the young boy, watching tears streaming down his face.
“I still miss them,” Yren said softly.
“And you always will, Yren,” Elva said, reaching back to touch the boy on the shoulder. “Nothing will ever stop the ache you feel when you think of them. Over time, though, it will grow a little less until it becomes bearable.”
“So, I’ll be a blacksmith, then?” Yren asked a bit later, when he managed to get his emotions back under control. Cautiously, he looked between Ardt and Elva.
“Yeah, boy,” Ardt replied. “You’ll learn to be a smith. I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you to be a truly great smith.”
“And I won’t have to kneel to Tyln’s altar unless I want to?” He asked suspiciously.
“No need for you to,” Elva chuckled. “We certainly don’t. We kneel to Deia.”
“Deia?” Yren asked, his eyes growing wide. “Sister Mendfred agreed to this?”
“Not hardly,” Ardt snorted.
“There were certain ... truths ... that we kept from Sister Mendfred,” Elva admitted. “Certain things she didn’t really need to know.”
Yren just scrunched up his face. “Deia.” He said the word, listening to it. “I guess I could kneel to Deia.”
“That’s the spirit, Yren,” Ardt laughed.
After a few minutes of silence, Yren had another question. “How long until we get to ... er ... your home?”
“Days,” Ardt replied, glancing over his shoulder. “We live in Hasp which is a bit more than six days away.”
“Hasp?” Yren tested the word in his mouth. “I’ve not heard of it.”
“I’d be surprised if you had,” Ardt admitted. “It’s only a small village – though it does have a certain reputation.”
“We’ve a retired Queen’s Knight who makes Hasp his home,” Elva explained. “Sir Givens. He’s opened a training center just outside of the village. A great number of nobles send their children to learn swords and shields from him. I’m told the Queen and King hold him in high regard.”
“I’m sorry,” Yren apologized. “I’ve not heard of Sir Givens, either.”
“No reason you should,” Ardt chuckled.
“Will we truly be sleeping on the ground?” Yren asked, changing the subject.
It took Ardt and Elva a second to catch up.
“Aye,” Ardt replied, just beating out his wife. “We have some stores in the sacks you’re leaning on – dried vegetables, some flour, a bit of jerky and such – and a tent with some blankets against the back rail. We’ll likely do some hunting for meat – rabbits and squirrels, mostly, since anything more would be too much trouble to carry – and take on fresh water where we can but we’ll definitely be setting a camp at least most nights.”
Yren thought for a while as he bounced and jostled with the cart. Finally coming to a decision, he carefully watched the couple in the front even as he reached to his neck and opened the pouch that hung there. He fingered aside the worn note – a message from a mage named Gelbin explaining why no one but he could see the pouch, much less open it – and pulled out four coppers.
For a moment, he looked at the shiny coppers and thought on that note. He couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone named Gelbin but the time around the plague wasn’t very clear to him. The note had mentioned that the pouch was the inheritance his mother and father had left him. He was cautioned that, while he could spend the gems and coins as he saw fit, he should never sell the rings. Gelbin called them magical and suggested Yren wear them. Yren had tried them on but they were too loose on his fingers. Besides, he wasn’t sure he believed in magic rings anyway. The rings had once belonged to his parents, though, so he’d kept them – not that he’d have ever thought to sell them anyway. Nor had he any chance to sell or use anything; none but the priests and priestesses owned anything at the orphanage and he was certainly not going to let them know about his inheritance.
Finally, he turned to the front and reached out with the four coppers. “Here,” he called.
Ardt glanced at them but Elva stared at the four coins curiously. She glanced back to Yren. “What are these for?”
“You paid four coppers for me,” Yren said, his face serious. “I would rather not be in your debt.”
Elva looked down at the four coppers and then up to Yren. She studied his face before nodding; she could see how important this was for him. She reached out and took the four coppers. “Thank you, Yren.”
The boy nodded and turned away, snuggling down against the sacks. He was scared at what the future held; the last time he’d gone somewhere new had been when he’d lost his parents and his sister. He didn’t feel he was losing anything this time, though. He would not miss the constant kneeling and praying to Tyln. He would not miss the beatings and thrashings when one of the Holy Sisters or Holy Brothers found him breaking some law or rule of Tyln he didn’t even know about. He would not miss the seemingly constant touching and fondling Holy Brother Dal subjected him to.
With the fear, he felt a sense of excitement and adventure. Goodman and woman Tulat seemed – nice. During the past two seasons, Yren had forgotten what nice was. Not only had the Sisters and Brothers beaten him and worse but the other orphans had enjoyed pointing out his failings to them – as if by pushing him down they were elevating themselves up.
Yren looked over at Elva and then to Ardt. Yes, they seemed nice. Normal. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a home with them.
Finding a comfortable position, he slowly drifted off to sleep.
“Time to wake up, boy,” Ardt called as he pulled the cart off the worn path. He steered the horses carefully; horses were expensive and he could ill-afford to buy more – especially this far from his forge.
He maneuvered the pair pulling the cart a few dozen yards into the trees; close enough to easily return to the road but not so close as to be seen from it. He would build the fire carefully to make sure it wouldn’t easily be seen from the road; no need to tempt fate. He reined in the horses within a short, natural depression.
“We’ll camp in the depression,” Ardt announced as he dismounted. He reached under the bench seat and took a brush and curry comb from the storage bin set underneath. He turned to his wife. “I’ll tend the horses if you and the boy can start dinner.”
“Dinner?” Yren squeaked. “I don’t know how to cook dinner.”
Elva smiled at him. “Well, I’ll have to teach you – but not tonight. Tonight, you just help me unload the cart and we’ll fetch some wood. Then, while I’m doing the cooking, you and Ardt can set up the tent.”
“I don’t know how to set up a tent, either,” Yren frowned.
“Well, Ardt can start teaching you all about tents tonight,” Elva chuckled. “Fair?”
Yren nodded and climbed out of the cart. He looked around tentatively. Trees stretched as far as he could see. They grew together above him, a canopy of green with frequent small, blue gaps letting sunlight filter down in a green haze. Grass and shrubs scattered the ground, dappled with bursts of sunlight. He could smell a dank, woodsy smell with a hint of mint and what smelled like peppercorn bursting on the slight, warm wind. He felt comfortable here in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. He had the confusing, scary sense that he was right where he belonged.
Elva met him at the back and showed him how to release the metal pegs that held the back wall of the cart in place. He watched her as much as the metal. She was taller than him but thin and somewhere on the road she’d let her dark blonde hair down so it curled to the middle of her back and danced on the breeze. Yren couldn’t quite describe how he felt when he looked at her; she was just worn and comfortable – like the feel of his blanket on his bunk. Ardt, too, felt warm and inviting, though the big man scared him just a little. It was hard for the young boy to understand his feelings but he felt – safe. Secure. Again, as if right here and right now with these people were exactly where he was supposed to be. He watched her let the cart tail down, listened to the metal squeak as it lowered until the chains on either side of the tail clinked as they came taut.
“What’re those?” Yren asked, looking at the lowered cart wall.
“I’m sure you’ve seen chains before,” Elva asked curiously.
“Not the chains – those,” Yren replied, pointing.
Elva followed his fingers and laughed. “You mean the hinges? Have you never seen metal hinges before? On doors and such?”
“No, ma’am,” Yren replied, letting his finger stroke the metal. “All of the doors at the orphanage – and at my-my-my home – were done with leather straps or rope. Holy Brother Mitel was constantly grumbling because he had to replace them so often.”
“I’ll bet,” Elva chuckled. “It’s one benefit to being a smith’s wife; metal doesn’t wear out as often.”
“Ardt did this?” Yren asked, glancing up at the woman.
“Aye,” she replied. “You’ll be able to do it, too, in a few seasons. Once Ardt has taught you up a bit.”
“I really think I’d like that,” Yren smiled.
“It’s hard work, though,” Elva cautioned, “and very hot. The forge is not somewhere to play.”
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